


All The Little Things

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [133]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU in which Thor aimed for the head, Depression, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Loki (Marvel) Lives, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 16:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15912090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Thor mourns those he couldn't save. Loki finds a way to console him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: you’re always finding weird trinkets in your clothes such as colourful feathers, smooth rocks, glinting scales or peculiar miniature marble carvings and you don’t know where they’re coming from but they’re actually good luck charms that i slip into pockets. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).
> 
> ETA: Now with a beginning, middle, and end because these two wouldn't leave me be today. And an uptick in the rating.

Loki’s pockets are filled with feathers. Feathers and smooth, perfect stones; seashells and old coins; an abandoned earring he found on the sidewalk, a bit of especially beautiful string.

It’s not a conscious habit, his collecting, but it’s a purposeful one. There’s so much about their life on Earth that feels temporary, impermanent; as if at any moment the ground might lift away, shoot out from under their feet and carry them up towards the sky; so to be weighed down by bits of loveliness, scraps of what it means to be in this world and of it brings Loki some measure of comfort, some feeling, however fleeting, of control.

He doesn’t bother trying to explain it to Thor. But then his brother, Norns bless him, has his own problems, doesn’t he? His own everyday matters to keep him occupied.

Thor is grieving. This is how Loki defines it, operating only from his observations, his hundreds of years of practice reading his brother’s expressions, his body language, his words as well as his silences. He paces around their home at night, up the stairs and down them, around the kitchen and through the living spaces, up to the sleeping rooms and back, outside and into the garden, the dog trotting obediently as his feet. He doesn’t talk when he gets like that, turned inward and oddly introspective, and Loki has long since learned that it’s a waste of breath to try and ask. Better, then, to wait; to stretch out on the settee in the sunroom and finish his book, or gaze at Twitter, or talk through spells he hasn’t cast in a lifetime, ones he’d be loathe to forget. Better to occupy himself with something other than his brother’s self-imposed torment until Thor comes to rest in the doorway looking especially haggard, harangued by his own thoughts, by what Loki suspects are loud, insistent doubts.

“I’m going up to bed,” Thor will say, one hand on the dog’s head. “Will you come?”

Upstairs, it’s quiet, the stars above already sleeping. The nearest house is only a few yards away from the edge of their garden, but at times like this, in the very heart of night, it feels as though they’re utterly alone, floating again on the edge of the galaxy, untethered, and sometimes, if he allows himself, Loki feels again what it was like to fall, to slip away from the Bifrost and feel the suck of the universe--cold, uninterested, unfeeling--draw him in and down, down and down, away from everything: from his story, from his station, from the wide, terrified eyes of his beloved, bewildered Thor.

But more often, it’s Thor who stumbles, Thor whose face is pallid and blank as he unwinds himself from his clothes, as he bares the skin Loki knows so well, never loses the urges to kiss and to touch. Now is not the right time, though; not now, when his brother is going through the motions of the evening: brushing his teeth, running a cool cloth over his face, reminding the dog that she is to sleep in her bed, the one that sits beside the bedroom door, and not, repeat not, leap up and spread herself gleeful across their bed, their clean, cream-colored sheets.

Loki pares down to his underwear, silken and black, and follows his own routine. Washes his face, scrubs at his teeth, frowns at himself in the mirror, watching the pulse in his neck rise and fall, rise and fall, rise. There are words on his teeth, trapped in his tongue, but he knows Thor will not respond to him, whatever he says, no matter how cruel or sweet or outrageous; the king of Asgard, now lost, its people saved, then destroyed, is too busy questioning old choices, second-guessing himself, wondering what it was he might have done differently to stop the great purple demon at the start. What he might have done to cut off so much pain, so much suffering. So much death.

Never mind that it was his ax that struck the same great brute down, his arm that cast the final, decisive blow. Never mind that, because of his actions, Loki was able to return to the living, to slink from the dark, awful places he’d been hiding, convinced always that one or more of the idiot Children of Thanos was right there on his heels. Never mind that, without Thor’s cunning, his bravery, his sheer force of will, Loki would most likely be dead.

On nights like this, when the conscience of a king is a roaring ocean that cannot be quieted by reassuring words, by logicked comfort or counsel, there is only one way, in all the years they have known each other, loved, that Loki has found to break through.

The trick, he thinks, giving himself one last look, is knowing whether Thor wants his reverie broken. He doesn’t, always. Some nights, he’ll turn his back to Loki and bury his head in his pillow; resist the stretch of fingers, the searching brush of a kiss and wait until the air is at its stillest, until he can wait no longer and then, only then, allow himself to weep.

Loki hopes this is not such a night. Something under his skin is itchy and urgent, hungry. He makes a face at his reflection and reaches for the light. For better or worse, something under his skin is aching on this night to be touched.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Thor is sitting on the edge of the bed, turning something over and over again in his fingers; a flash of color, a peak of something sharp.

“What is that?” Loki says.

“I don’t know. A feather, I suppose. It fell out of your pocket.”

“Oh. May I see?”

Thor holds the thing up without lifting his head: jade black, it is, with a whisper of blue.

“Ah, yes,” Loki says, “it was on the sidewalk outside the library, caught beneath the bottom step. I thought it was lovely.” 

“It is.” Thor’s free hand creeps out, curls itself around Loki’s thigh, tentative. “It looks like you, a little.”

Loki’s breath settles hard in his chest. “Does it?” he says lightly. “I don’t know. Blue’s never really been my best color.”

“Were you always such a magpie? I don’t remember you being so well versed in clutter.”

“Tsk,” Loki says, plucking the feather away. “This isn’t clutter, darling. It’s appreciation. A small collection of all the little things that make this life lovely.”

Now both hands on are his thighs, big flexing fingers holding him steady. “Six months ago,” Thor says, tugging gently, “you wouldn’t shut up about how frightful Midgard was, how small the humans were. How pale everything seemed. Colorless.”

Loki tucks the feather behind his ear and reaches for his brother’s head, tucks his palms against the curve of his crown. “Six months ago, I was still adjusting. You’re far more familiar with this realm than I am.”

Thor smiles, lifts his head up so Loki can see. “Your last visit was more of a drive-by, wasn’t it? I suppose there wasn’t much time for sightseeing.”

It’s not a full-fledged smile; not the sort that starts slowly and then takes over Thor’s whole face. But it’s a step in the right direction, a toe dipped out of the darkness and stretched tentative into Loki’s own light.

It’s a start.

Sometimes, on nights like this, it’s clear to Loki that Thor doesn’t choose his melancholy, has no real desire to remain trapped within its grasp. At his core, Loki’s brother wants to be happy, wants to be able to set the past aside and live with all the vigor and compassion and joy that lies at the core of him, that marks the center of his very soul. He wants to pulled from the river of doubt and regret into which he is too ready to wander these days and if there is anyone in all the Realms he trusts to see him through, the look in his eyes leaves no room for question: it’s Loki, it has always been Loki, and now more than ever, Thor needs him to do just that.

The grip on Loki’s thighs shifts to his waist and all at once Thor’s face is pressed to his stomach, each warm breath an unsteady breeze over Loki’s cool skin. Loki turns his fingers through his brother’s hair and scratches at the base of his neck, feels himself stirring in his silks, silks that are brushing the long heat of Thor’s throat.

“Let’s not talk anymore tonight, darling,” Loki says. “Hmmm? Not a word from you, all right?”

A kiss by way of answer, a drag of Thor’s tongue under his ribs.

“Good boy,” Loki murmurs, the pound of Thor’s heart arching under his thumb. “Lie back now. I want to look at you. Each and every inch.”


	2. Chapter 2

On Thor’s skin, there is a record of each chapter of their lives. Old scars faded to parchment: the starfish of a stab wound on his hip, the slice of a broken bottle, the tempered flare of someone else’s sword. There are bites on his calves from the wolves of Niflheim from a few centuries past, a time when Thor’s legs were too short to carry him to safety, his head too swollen to think he needed to; the whole point of the thing was adventure, and was good was adventure if you fled from it at every turn? On his ankles, hints of elf-rope, forged from a metal softer the straw and a thousand times stronger; Loki smiles as he kisses those scars. What a day that had been for the two them: cornered in a Frost Giant’s castle, strung up to await what their host had been sure was the last night of their lives.

It hadn’t been, of course. Thor was too strong, Loki too clever, to be felled quite so easily.

Still, that night had left its mark.

On Thor’s chest, Loki half-expects to find evidence of his own fingers; the rivers they’ve clawed there, first in battle, fevered wrestling by the fire, and then, years later, in the greater heat of need. Thor likes to see Loki’s face when they fuck, especially when Loki is the one who’s full, and Loki has hammered against the great expanse of Thor’s chest, hammered and clutched and torn in futile effort to make his brother move faster, or slower, or harder. He knows it won’t work, it never has, but there’s something about it that’s deeply satisfying, that sort of familiar frenzy, that he’s long since come to crave.

He uses his mouth to search about tonight, the damp palms of his hands, and Thor thrashes for him beautifully, runs his fingers through Loki’s hair again and again and shoves his body up, shivering, begging without speaking for more.

Thor is naked now, stripped free of his t-shirt, of the flannel sleep pants he’s so fond of, the ones that are too warm, the ones that never stay on all night. His cock is pressed against Loki’s stomach, fat and leaking, and the tension in his body is something Loki dreams about; oh, he thinks, slinking a kiss under his brother’s arm, down his ribs, Thor has wound himself up but good.

He raises his head, stays stretched over Thor’s body. “Darling, do you want me to fuck you?”

He doesn’t need to ask, not when Thor’s strung so tight; the answer is right there, apparent, but he likes hearing the words, likes saying them. Likes watching Thor’s face quake when he does.

Thor’s eyes are molten. His lip is caught in his teeth and his hands are restless over Loki’s shoulders, trying to touch too much at once. He nods. Bites his lip scarlet and nods again.

Loki leans down to kiss him and time melts, oozes through their fingers like lava, licks at their skin, and when Loki emerges, shakes his head free, Thor is on his knees before him, face buried in the coverlet, the blanket no match for the sounds that pour out of him as Loki, ever so slowly, pushes his way in.

Thor’s ass is slick, Loki’s fingers, too, and they slip when Loki clutches Thor’s hip and takes that last, anxious inch and comes to rest against his brother, flesh to flesh.

“Oh, Thor,” Loki says, unbidden, unburdened. “My love. Oh _fuck_.”

He is moving before he means to, holding tight to Thor’s hip, the top of his thigh, and he’d forgotten, hadn’t he, that there is something about this sight that undoes him, cuts away at any pretense that he might still pretend to hold. He’s always enjoyed having Thor this way, spread out beneath him, a show of submission that’s become less so as the years have gone by. Once, he knows, Thor did this to humor him, to allow Loki to play at being his better, his equal, his top. But there came a time when Thor gave into the game, found pleasure in it, took as much from being on his knees as Loki did from putting him there. And now, now in the long shadow of Thanos, of Hela, of so much obliteration, Thor’s asked for it more often, sometimes with words and sometimes without; more than once of late has Loki emerged from the bath to find his brother on the bed, eager and waiting, two broad fingers preparing the way.

But there is something more in it for Loki, too, these days, for on his back, that vast stretch of muscle and bone, Thor bears the catch of Thanos’s glove, a burn four fingers wide. He may have struck the madman’s head from his shoulders, but the bastard’s hand had lived on a split second more, long enough to bury itself in Thor’s back and score him with a symbol of what they had lived through, all those they had lost--a number that had so very nearly included Loki himself. Unlike the other scars, dampened by space and by time, this tear is still red, still tender, sometimes, as if Thanos had only just let go, and it fills Loki with a kind of rage, a sort of terror, an awful sort of desire to leave his own mark.

He leans over to kiss it, to lave over its monstrosity--so out of place on Thor’s body, a temple always to beauty and strength--and ends up bent over, his chest to his brother’s back, his arms knotted around Thor’s chest. How this happens, he isn’t sure; it’s as if his hips have a mind of their own, furious and possessive, and even his voice is not his, words replaced by panted howls, by angry vows, by a shout that begins in the base of his spine and rips up and out of his mouth. A glorious sound, a terrible one, like thunder trapped in a bottle, and it sends the dog from the room, whining, its nails catching on the floor as it bolts down the hall.

A cry from beneath him, a gasp, and there on the bed, Thor is drowning, his fists caught in cream, his face lost in the sheets as they bubble and break free; he’s exquisitely tight, squeezing Loki’s cock with no mercy, and Loki is powerless, Loki is lost, Loki is jerking Thor’s cock and biting at his scar and Loki is coming and coming, a long, merciless rush that knocks his breath away, that closes a mighty hand around his heart.

“Thor,” he slurs against his brother’s neck. “Oh, my sweet. My darling. I’m so glad you’re still alive.”

And then the world is turning, the bed, the ceiling, his head, and he’s on his back, staring up into the sun: Thor’s face, his big hand, spread wide like a rainbow over Loki’s cheek, the tip of his chin. Then a kiss, like a fever, a river roaring out of its banks, and Thor’s hand is flying between them, chasing pleasure that he has so well earned, so.

Loki murmurs this to him, slides the words between his brother’s lips and clutches Thor’s ass, feels the muscles shift like mountains, great heaves of rock and of sand. He touches the tips of his fingers to Thor’s opening, to the hint of his own spend there, the wet, and it’s these gentle strokes that shatter Thor’s heartache, that drive out his pain, and when he comes, paints Loki’s body with heat and with light, he howls Loki’s name, shoots it through the stillness of the night as if it were a comet hurled from his own fist.

He’s a pricked balloon, after, hot air lost from the kiss of a pin, and he rolls into Loki’s arms, gathers him close, there in the uprooted mess that is now their bed.

“I love you,” Thor says against Loki’s temple, bites electric into the damp of his hair. “Love you. More than anything else I could name. Don’t ever forget that.”

Loki plucks the feather from his hair, still there, and tucks it behind his brother’s ear, the ebony a shock against the gold. “I’ve never wanted to forget,” he says softly. “Why would I start trying now?”

For a time, then, mourning is replaced once again by the joy of living, the small moments, like this one, the little things that make even the darkest of nights feel worthwhile, if they allow us one step in the light.


End file.
